


Kaleidescope

by hypatheticallyspeaking



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts!au, Slow Burn, sort of snapshots of bellarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypatheticallyspeaking/pseuds/hypatheticallyspeaking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke, from first meeting to being so much more. </p><p>Bellarke Secret Santa for fleur-reveur on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidescope

The first time he sees her, they’re on the Hogwarts Express. He’s a fourth-year who thinks he owns the whole world, goofing off with magic and hexing the third-years teasing his sister and other “ickle firsties”. He only notices her because she’s watching him with crossed arms and a stern look on her face, as though it’s _his_ fault that those people were picking on Octavia in the first place. Her eyes are a bright blue, but colder than he’d imagine from a first year.

Unfortunately, Octavia seems to take a liking to the blonde-haired ice princess as they start glaring daggers at each other. It’s nowhere near friendly, but he’ll do anything for Octavia. So he endures a train compartment with two excited first years who have nothing on their minds except what house they’ll be sorted into and what their favorite classes will be.

He won’t admit it, but he thinks that the girl might be a good friend for Octavia. He hasn’t heard her laugh this much since their mom passed away the previous summer. It’s the fastest train ride he’s ever been on, and he’s pretty sure that it’s thanks to Octavia’s constant chattering.

The Sorting goes just as quickly, with Octavia as one of the first. He swears that the sorting hat barely touches Octavia’s dark hair before exclaiming that she’s a Gryffindor, just like him. She takes a seat next to him, and he gives her a quick hug before the Sorting continues. Professor Kane calls out for Clarke Griffin, and the blonde takes a step forward.

There’s a general air of surprise in the Great Hall. She’s the daughter of Madam Griffin, the witch in charge of the Hospital Wing, and he’s pretty sure that there was a rumor indicating that her father’s an Unspeakable.

It takes the Sorting Hat a solid minute, maybe two, to decide that she’s a Ravenclaw. The blonde is welcomed by one of his friends—a brunette in his year, Raven Reyes—and he knows that his sister’s new friend doesn’t have anything to worry about. He silently hopes that this Clarke girl doesn’t have the same aptitude for exploding side effects of spells that his friend does. He can feel Octavia’s disappointment at the sorting, but he pats his sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, you’ll get classes together. And there’s always clubs.”

Octavia pouts, but she doesn’t complain.

 

He’s a brand-new prefect when he’s called down to the Hospital Wing because of his sister. He’s furious, not because Octavia’s in the Hospital Wing, but because he wasn’t there to help her. But when he opens the large wooden double-doors, he sees that it’s not only his sister incapacitated.

“Why the hell are they letting second years into dueling club?” Madam Griffin mutters, shuffling about the room and working on curing their injuries.

“What happened?” He’s about ready to start hexing people.

Madam Griffin stares at him with a level gaze. “My daughter and your sister decided that it would be a great idea to duel each other. Who taught your sister all these different hexes?”

He glances at his sister’s injuries; she’s sprouting spikes all over her body. “Who taught her that jinx?” The healer huffs, and stalks away, undoubtedly to get more potions to fix the girls’ ailments. Bellamy turns his attention to the girls. “What the hell were you two thinking?”

“Oh come on, Bell,” Octavia complains, “You’ve gotten into your own fair share of trouble.”

“It’s not like we didn’t do anything they didn’t say. They said we could duel. They never limited the spells we could use.” Clarke Griffin, voice of logic to the rescue. Not.

“You’re lucky I don’t deduct points from both your houses.”

“But that’d be from Gryffindor!” Octavia exclaims, surprised.

“Your point?”

 

His sixth year, they’re on opposing Quidditch teams, with Clarke as the seeker for Ravenclaw and Bellamy as the keeper for Gryffindor. It’s the house cup, and their teams are perfectly tied. She hovers near his set of goals, goading him whenever her team comes nearby with the quaffle.

There’s a glint in the air, a tidbit of gold out of the corner of her eye, and she darts off mid-sentence. He grips his broom tighter, desperately not wanting to lose this match, especially not to Ravenclaw. The skies above the Quidditch pitch are overcast, and he feels the first drops of rain begin to fall.

Neither of the seekers catch the snitch, and in the time it takes Clarke and Miller to lose track of the endgame ball, he’s able to defend the goalposts four times. It’s nearly two hours into the game, and he can see his team getting lethargic. Even Octavia’s not that excited about beating Ravenclaw, despite her seemingly-constant rivalry with the opposing team’s chasers.

He keeps his eyes on both the sky and the other thirteen players as the rain begins to downpour in a manner that obscures his vision more than he’d like. The sound of thunder echoes in the distance, and he hopes that the storm goes around the Quidditch pitch entirely.

There’s a flash of light and a resounding _crack_ before he hears a familiar scream—Clarke’s voice. It’s not super noticeable over the rowdy crowd and he grits his teeth. Even Madam Byrne, the referee, doesn’t notice the Ravenclaw seeker falling towards the ground in a tailspin. He doesn’t even process the fact that she’s on the opposing team, or the fact that they’ve done everything possible to antagonize each other for the past three years. His body moves of its own volition, shooting forward from the goal to catch Clarke in midair. She’s clinging to her broom for dear life—they’re getting closer to the ground every single second—and he needs her to trust him. He grabs her torso and she squeaks in surprise. He does his best to make it so that she’s not falling.

“Clarke, let go.”

“But-”

“I’ve got you.”

She lets go of her broom, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he pulls up just in time to prevent them from toppling to the ground. It’s a rough landing and they’ll probably have bruises for a week, but it’s infinitely better than broken bones and getting stuck in the hospital wing.

Madam Byrne blows her whistle, finally realizing what’s happened.

“You okay, princess?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He _definitely_ won’t admit that being able to save her is so much more important than the outcome of the House Cup, even though Gryffindor is victorious.

 

He’s studying for NEWTs when Clarke mysteriously vanishes for a day. The rumors vary from her being scouted as a seeker to having illegally become an animagus. The only one he believes is that something’s happened to her father during his time in the Department of Mysteries, but he doesn’t go out of his way to inquire. He’s having a hellish time in Astronomy, and even Raven’s too busy to help him out—so he’s thankful for the temporary respite from Clarke’s incessant questions about helping her with her classes.

“Have you heard from Clarke?” he asks Octavia the next day, when there’s no peripheral glint of gold from the Ravenclaw table.

“I passed her on the way to class,” his sister replies before digging into her breakfast food. “Why are you asking _me_?” she retorts with a pointed glare, as though it’s not her business despite them being best friends.

“She wasn’t asking me random questions yesterday. I thought she was just giving me a break so I could study without her hovering for once…” he lets his voice trail off. There’s no way he’d ever go and talk to Madam Griffin unless it’s a last resort, so he’d rather just get information from his sister.

“Ask her yourself.”

He finds her at his usual table in the library, but her books are closed and he can tell that the school’s princess is on the verge of tears. He doesn’t want to pry, knowing full well that she’ll just launch into another verbal sparring match—Madam Sydney’s nearly thrown them out on multiple occasions—if she’s not ready to talk about… whatever happened.

Less than five minutes after he opens his books and starts reviewing his notes, he gets hit in the head with a charmed piece of parchment. _Why haven’t you asked me anything yet, know-it-all?_ The ink fades after a few seconds, and he writes back his reasoning: _Didn’t want you to yell at me._

She frowns as she reads the paper, crossing her arms in a huff. After casting a quick muffliato spell, she raises her voice as high as she dares. “How can you act so damn _normal_?”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, looking up from his mostly illegible notes. “You’re able to do it, and I’d rather if you don’t yell at me for being curious. I’m not a Ravenclaw,” he adds at the last second for a little bit of levity.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Act so normal when you don’t have parents? I-” she chokes, and tears start spilling over and cascading down her cheeks. “I don’t know how to deal with it. I won’t get owl post from him ever again, I can’t even say goodbye.”

He glances over his shoulder at the librarian before moving to sit next to her. He wedges himself between her and the windowsill, but he doesn’t mind. He wraps his arm around her, giving her a shoulder to cry on.

“I can’t tell you that it’ll be easy, but you have so many people here that care about you. People you can go to whenever you need to cry or shout or just distract yourself. And it’ll fade. I promise.” He doesn’t want to blatantly say that _he_ ’ll always be there for her. She already knows.

She sniffles, and the tears flow freely along with other words. It’s another half hour before all her tears are gone, and almost a full hour when he’s able to start studying again. She gives him a watery smile and shifts her chair so that he’s more comfortable. She whispers quietly, asking if it’s okay to rest her head on his shoulder; the only response he can give is a shrug before he feels Clarke gently lean against him. He doesn’t even antagonize her about the fact that her makeup’s probably stained his robes or that her blonde hair’s tickling his neck.

It becomes their new norm, replacing their banter.

Somehow, he manages to get O’s on all of his NEWTs.

 

He’s bleeding from a stray curse, and all he remembers is blacking out. When he opens his eyes, the first thing he focuses on is a pair of blue eyes framed by startlingly blonde hair. There’s a scowl on the person’s lips, one of the first things he notices the second his vision clears. He can’t really feel anything; his body tingles like he’s tried desperately to get out of a full-body bind for _hours_. The face turns away for a few seconds to shout something at another Healer before returning to stare at his face with a mix of anger and relief.

“Well,” Bellamy manages to croak out, “Guess I’m not dead.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but he notices the upwards quirk of her lips. “Octavia would’ve killed me if I let you die on my watch.”

“Ouch,” he quips back, “I see you only saved me out of self-preservation. Harsh.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” she sighs. “You know I love you.”

He pulls himself up to sitting in the bed, finally regaining control over his body. “Yeah, love you too.” He wraps his arms around her and rests his chin on her shoulder. _You have no idea how much_.

“You’re allowed to leave in four more hours,” she comments. Clarke’s smiling, he can tell.

“That’s a little too late for the usual lunch,” Bellamy realizes with a frown. It’s become a habit, eating lunch together on Saturdays.

“Yeah. Shame you had to get yourself cursed again, huh?”

“Shut up.” He lets go of her in mock offense. They know each other too well now. He’s far from reckless, but he’s still the one most frequently brought to St. Mungo’s. He blames his Gryffindor-ness. Clarke claims it’s not a word, but she’s no better when defending her workaholic actions with her Ravenclaw-ness.

He’s in his usual room at St. Mungo’s, and it’s honestly sad that he’s got a _usual room_. Thank Merlin he’s never called it that aloud or he’d never hear the end of it from her. Well, at least for a month or two. There’s no one else in the room, even though there’s normally at least one soon-to-be-discharged patient in the neighboring bed.

Clarke breaks the peaceable silence, saying, “I finish my shift around then.”

“I guess you’ll just have to come to my flat and I’ll cook, then.”

She blinks before nodding slowly. “You haven’t had anyone over in…”

“Months, I know.” He frowns at her. “What do you want to eat?”

“Anything’s good. Seriously.” The grin on her face is wider than ever, and the emotion is practically contagious. “You know what food I like anyway, so there’s no point.”

“Just checking.”

“I’ve gotta finish with my other patients. We’ll floo back together, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s not an official date. But it’s as good as, especially when he kisses her goodnight. Not on the forehead like usual, but a real kiss.

They start dating the week afterwards.

 

He’s standing at the end of the aisle in a suit that feels much too tight and wondering if all grooms feel like these minutes take an _eternity_. Octavia, the _obvious_ maid of honor, rolls her eyes when she sees him fidgeting with the sleeves of his tuxedo in nervousness. There are butterflies in the pit of his stomach, but it’s actually a _good_ feeling.

The doors open slowly, and the bridal procession begins with a kaleidoscope of butterflies—Octavia’s handiwork, without a doubt—before he even sees Clarke. It’s as though all of his anxiety is washed away by her presence. Her white dress mirrors the snow that swirls outside, sparkling and shifting with every step, entirely as unique as she is. Her hair’s up in an elegant braided bun, but held together with Clarke’s wand. He’s unable to withhold his smirk at that. He’s going to tease her about her Ravenclaw-ness later, but for the moment, he can barely think coherently. The veil that covers her face can’t hide the dazzling smile on Clarke’s face. And he can’t even feign a serious expression. Bellamy smiles uncontrollably as he intertwines his hand with hers.

Everything, in this moment, is perfect.


End file.
